


but he helps to still the shakes

by OfShoesAndShips



Series: those of us who are lost and low [5]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Consent Issues, M/M, previous John Childermass/Gilbert Norrell, unrequited Gilbert Norrell/Jonathan Strange - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:46:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9555776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfShoesAndShips/pseuds/OfShoesAndShips
Summary: Written for the following kink meme prompt:So Childermass has long harbored feelings for Norrell, and Norrell has been in love with Strange since the second he clapped eyes on him. I really want to see some spectacularly bad-idea sex after Strange leaves in which Norrell is brokenhearted and thinking of Strange the whole time, and Childermass knows very well that's precisely what's happening. They both know it's a terrible idea. Neither of them is going to get what they want from this scenario. And both of them let it happen anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This fic is a sequel to my Childermass/Strange fic 'build myself a home out of the cinders and the dust' and as such contains ace!Childermass with depression and sex as a form of self-harm. (It also contains a fleeting suggestion of Childermass having cerebral palsy)

Jonathan Strange leaves on a Wednesday. It would be funny, Childermass thinks, if it were anything, anyone else. Anyone but him, anyone but Strange (whose pity he still feels, claggy and cold against his spine), anyone but Norrell.

Oh, God, anyone but Norrell.

Because Jonathan Strange leaves on a Wednesday, and Norrell cannot hide his sorrow and Childermass tries to pretend that he cannot see it but he can’t last even to Friday night. Norrell cries less than he expected, but in bursts, small heartbroken gulps and snappings, and Childermass tries to bury the sound in the reading he makes himself do, in the moving of books and the chivvying of servants but he hears it still, and it catches at his own sorrow. Not, it must be said, sorrow for Strange. Sorrow of his own, sorrow that rots inside his bones, and sorrow for Norrell. Heartbreak over his heartbreak.

The hours stretch out, time crawling through Thursday so slowly that Childermass chafes. He used to treasure slow, quiet days in the library with Norrell, but now everything is off, everything is wrong. Norrell has barely looked at a book since. The window bangs in the wind most abominably and yet Norrell has not asked him to close it.

“Sir?” he asks, and gets no answer from the hunched bundle that was once Norrell, sitting in the chair by the fire.

He gets up and closes the window. Feels a soft skittering of relief across his nerves.

“Childermass.”

He jumps slightly and curses himself. It is a sign of how sleepless he has been that he cannot hide how easily he startles. But it is only he who notices, so he brushes it away.

“Yes?”

“You are free to say no,” he starts, his voice dull and heavy, and Childermass understands immediately. He feels sick, he wants to run, but he can’t move, “And I will not – we will forget I ever asked, but I-”

“You want…comfort, sir?” he asks, trying not to put any weight on the word.

“Please,” Norrell says, and the hoarseness of that one word, the knowledge of all the tears it dams, makes his decision for him.

 

-

 

He slept with Strange in this bed, Childermass thinks, as he supports Norrell above him, his hands pressed into the slight soft dips between Norrell’s ribs. It is not a betrayal, Childermass thinks, as he sighs out a little pleasure at the feeling of Norrell’s tongue against his neck, it isn’t, it isn’t. He traces his fingers over Norrell’s scalp, short hair soft against his fingers and wonders how different it is to Strange’s curls. Wonders if Norrell is comparing him, too, or if Norrell is too full of feeling to even realise it is not Strange he’s kissing, not Strange’s hands in his hair, on his back, on his hips.

Childermass doesn’t know which he’d rather. Both have their - he struggles for the word, trying to think while Norrell sucks the skin of his jaw – their disadvantages. A slight moan escapes him and Norrell’s hand clenches in the sheet beside his head and no, no, he can’t do this again, he can’t-

“Stop,” he whispers, hoarse, almost regretting it as soon as he says it.

But Norrell stops and his eyes open and he looks – he looks –

Childermass tries to pull himself together. He tries. But he fails even more badly than he had the last time, with Jonath- with _Strange_ , and he drags himself away from Norrell with his eyes screwed shut tight and he flinches when Norrell touches his shoulder even though he knows it’s only concern.

“Do not-” he whispers, “Do not take this as any reflection on-” he can’t get the words out, not like this, not sitting in these sheets all but naked, not while he’s still close enough to Norrell to feel his warmth. But he cannot make himself move.

“None of this is your fault,” he tries, “Do not take it as more than it is. Please. I could not bear if-”

Norrell clears his throat and Childermass almost swears under his breath. He should have just gone along with it like he did with Strange, it does no real harm-

“John,” Norrell whispers, “I do not want to hurt you. I have never wanted that. I am,” he clears his throat again, “I am sorry for it.”

“It was not one of my best ideas,” Childermass mutters, lightly, and Norrell laughs, startled.

They fall silent, and stay so for a few moments. Childermass still cannot move. After a little while longer Norrell shifts behind him, slipping off the bed and padding across the floor. There is the struggling sound of one of his drawers opening, and Norrell’s soft admonishment that he should oil it, and then the feeling of worn-soft cotton draped around his shoulders.

“John,” says Norrell again, very softly, “I do not want to leave until I know-” _until I know you’re not going to throw yourself off anything_ , Childermass fills in, though he knows that is not how Norrell would put it.

“I do not want you to leave,” he says, made honest by the fact that he does not have to look at Norrell’s face.

“But I thought-”

“I don’t want that either.”

“Then what do you want?”

Childermass slowly dresses himself in the shirt, and then he crawls back into bed. “Stay,” he says, and Norrell does.

It is not much. It is barely anything. But Norrell does not wake up teary-eyed, and neither does Childermass.


End file.
